


a bloody war behind my eyes (I'll come out right on the other side)

by thatsparrow



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign: Escape from the Bloodkeep, Family Bonding, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24167389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: L.J. is raised by a mother, a father, two aunts, and three uncles—one of whom is a giant eagle with a penchant for spider-silk suits and hats made of leathered skin.
Relationships: Leiland Jr. (Dimension 20) & The Vile Villains (Dimension 20), Leiland | Kraz-Thun & Maggie (Dimension 20), Lilith/Efink Murderdeath, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 173





	a bloody war behind my eyes (I'll come out right on the other side)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "free" by mother mother

L.J. is raised by a mother, a father, two aunts, and three uncles—one of whom is a giant eagle with a penchant for spider-silk suits and hats made of leathered skin.

"Fashion transcends race," Uncle John had said to him, dressed that day in a forest green waistcoat with a matching tartan ascot. "You hear me, L.J.? None of this rusted metal bullshit with a bloodstain finish that your old—that the _old_ Lord of Shadows used to wear. Just because you're the new king of evil or whatever doesn't mean you have to be afraid of a little color."

Mostly, Uncle John liked to give him clothing advice, which was fine but not L.J.'s favorite. Sometimes, though—usually when Mom was busy leading an assault against the forces of men and elves—Uncle John would let L.J. climb up into the crook between his wings for flying lessons, knees braced against his sides and arms wrapped as far around Uncle John's feathered neck as they could reach and—after Uncle John had insisted—an oversized hand-me-down orc helmet buckled under his chin. 

"Not that you're gonna fall or anything," Uncle John had said the first time, moving towards the edge of the Bloodkeep's roof with little seven-year-old L.J. perched on his back. "But, you know, just in case. And even if you _do_ fall—which you won't—it's, like, totally whatever because I can fly and I'll catch you. Not like that time your mom and dad and Aunt Effie and Uncle Markus fell out of a fucking _airship_ without parachutes or wings or even a fucking prayer. You heard that one, L.J.? If not, remind me to tell you—it's a good story, and you know they all survived so it's kosher to laugh at them for it." By then, Uncle John's talons were hooked against the lip of the roof, the reliable stonework giving way to a yawning, endless distance between them and the ground. L.J. figured it had to be _miles_ , three or four, at least, and just _wait_ until Uncle Sokhy heard about this.

("Why do I have to be Uncle _Sokhy_?" Sokhbarr had asked after L.J. was born, tearing strips of fresh goblin meat for the newborn scream beasts at his feet. "You know he's already speaking in full sentences, right? If he's articulate enough to send Leiland on a quest after _Galfast Hamhead_ , I'm pretty sure he can manage 'Sokhbarr' just fine."

"'Uncle Sokhy' is cuter," Maggie had said, bouncing baby L.J. on one knee. "Besides, you're not the only one. We've already decided Efink is going to be 'Aunt Effie'."

"Look, I'm just saying—" Sokhbarr started, but then L.J. had said, "Uncle Sokhy!" in a delighted chirp, reaching out to wrap his pudgy fingers around one of Sokhbarr's curved horns, and that effectively ended any further discussion on the matter.) 

"You ready, L.J.?" Uncle John had said over his shoulder. "Just relax and hold on tight—or, you know, tight as you can without choking me—and promise that you absolutely, definitely, _will not_ tell Maggie about this."

"I promise—" L.J. had started to say, but the rest of the words were lost in his throat as Uncle John pitched them forward off the roof into a freefall, John's wings tucked in tight against his sides and the wind rushing loud through the gaps in L.J's helmet as they plummeted from the roof. He could feel his eyes watering from the ash in the air and his stomach and lungs caught somewhere up in his windpipe and even for a boy raised at the world's epicenter of evil and darkness, this was _easily_ the scariest thing that had ever happened to him. But just when L.J. was convinced that he was going to end up as a muddled stain of eagle and tiefling on the ground below, Uncle John had thrown open his wings wide, catching the currents and turning their headlong fall into soaring, breathtaking _flight_ , the two of them lifted up high over the landscape, far enough that the dirt and haze fell away into a beautiful bruised patchwork.

" _Fuck_ , Uncle John," L.J. had said over his breathless laugh as his heart-rate evened out. It was the first time he'd ever swore and he knew his mom would _kill him_ if she'd heard him using that sort of language, but no other word seemed right for how he was feeling. "You trying to kill me or something?"

"What, you're telling me the big bad Lord of Shadows is afraid of a little adrenaline rush?"

"Oh, come on, we were, like, _spitting distance_ from the ground."

Uncle John had laughed a little, taking them in a low circle over the brim of the caldera. "Relax, kid. You know I wouldn't ever let anything happen to you—and not just because Maggie would murder me if I did." He flapped his wings a few times, taking them high enough into the clouds that L.J. could feel moisture beading across his skin. "Besides, you ever heard about what happened the last time the Lord of Shadows kicked it? Talk about a headache and a half. Now, you trust your Uncle John enough to see what Gorgar looks like upside-down?"

Uncle John visits when he can, but those days grow rare as L.J. gets older; there's always another scouting mission that could use a pair of eagle eyes, another piece of business to attend to at Cael Stuppe. Still, there is one person who's guaranteed to be at the Bloodkeep whenever he's looking for company— 

"Aunt Effie!" L.J.'s been coming to the tomb on his own since he was old enough to manage the stairs. Like Aunt Lilith, he tries to spend time with Aunt Effie as often as he can; as she's told him, life can get awfully dull when you're confined to the same sixty square-foot area of the world. Today, she's sitting on the edge of her boat, feet dangling into the pool and a line of dried blood around her shins and the hem of her dress from where they've dipped below the surface.

"There's my favorite Lord of Shadows!" Aunt Effie says when she sees him, mouth stretching into that wide, waxy smile of hers. "Such a wonderful boy, visiting me as often as you do."

"That doesn't count, Aunt Effie," L.J. says as he draws closer, settling his eight-year-old self cross-legged on the lip of the fountain, feet tucked up under him (Mom has already given him about a million lectures on keeping his boots clean.) "I'm your _only_ Lord of Shadows."

Aunt Effie paddles closer, enough so that she could reach out and nudge him with one of her bloodstained toes. "That's certainly true now, but it wasn't always so. Once upon a time, when I was just a young girl betrothed to the future king of men and elves, a different Lord of Shadows ruled the Bloodkeep, one to whom your Aunt Effie first pledged her fealty."

"Betrothed?" L.J. asks. He's heard pieces of this story before, but not the part about Aunt Effie (and not much about the old Lord of Shadows, either.) "What does that mean?"

"Due to be married," Effie says, letting one of her hands trail through the blood. "To the most _insufferable_ idiot. Oh, sure, he was handsome enough, and once he became king, I would have been immeasurably powerful, but as time wore on, I found myself dreading the whole thing more and more. And then Zaul'Nazh, your—" Aunt Effie pauses, "—well, the former Lord of Shadows, he began to appear in my dreams. He said he could sense my dissatisfaction with the circumstances and so he offered me a new path with power of a different sort. Power that I couldn't say _no_ to."

"What happened to him?" L.J. asks. "To—" his mouth is uncertain around the shape of the name, "—to Zaul'Nazh?" People have mentioned the old Lord of Shadows to L.J. before, but no one's ever told him how the story ends.

"He died," Aunt Effie says, flat, "Or was killed, I suppose. He'd been badly weakened in a battle and the last of his soul was preserved in his crown. When the crown was destroyed—by two _halflings_ , of all creatures—Zaul'Nazh was destroyed with it, along with the magic that preserves the Bloodkeep. Nearly brought the whole place down."

L.J. swallows. He's never been afraid of being so deep below the earth before, but he suddenly feels uncomfortably aware of the weight of the tower above them, imagining the tons of mortar and stone held aloft by flimsy threads of weakened magic. Hadn't Zaul'Nazh been, like, _way_ more powerful than him? If he'd been killed so easily and the Bloodkeep nearly destroyed, what did that mean for L.J.? Would he spend his whole life with the forces of men and elves wanting him dead? 

As if she can hear what he was thinking—which, knowing Aunt Effie, she probably can—she gives him another smile and rests a hand on his knee, the gesture undercut only a little by the dripping fingerprints she leaves behind. "Don't worry, dearest, I can promise that won't happen to you. Zaul'Nazh was—well, he was a dick, a tremendous one, and his fate was largely his own doing. You, on the other hand, are a wonderful child surrounded by people who love you and care about you deeply and would never let anything happen to you. And if all that _still_ doesn't convince you, remember that your Aunt Effie can see the future, and the most dangerous thing to happen in yours is when Uncle Sokhbarr introduces you to the lava mog— _terribly_ hot tentacles."

"Thanks, Aunt Effie," L.J. says, grinning at her even though he can still feel a nervous itch in his stomach. "Did you want me to get Aunt Lilith?"

Aunt Effie shakes her head, "You're very sweet to offer, but that's alright. She and I have a dinner date planned for tonight once she's done with work." She deepens her smile—L.J.'s too young to notice that there's something a little thoughtful in her eyes as she looks at him—and flicks a few drops of blood at his ankles. "You know, now that you're getting older—and if your mother doesn't mind—perhaps I could start teaching you how to scry in the fountain? Seeing through time can be rather complicated, but to look across space is simple enough."

"You can _do_ that?" L.J. asks, eyes wide and nerves mostly forgotten as his head fills with the possibilities: checking in on his mom when she's leading the war effort or making sure his dad is okay during a mission, opening a window into the council room at Cael Stuppe or onto the deck of _The Siren's Revenge_ to see Uncle Markus or Uncle John, or delving into the Bog to see Uncle Sokhy and J'er'em'ih. He peers down at the surface of the pool, but all he can make out is his own red-dyed reflection, shifting and blurred in the stirring blood. Aunt Effie laughs, but not unkindly. "That and much more, little lord, but you must speak to your mother first."

His mom doesn't mind—mostly. L.J. does overhear her saying to Aunt Effie, "You promise that this won't melt his brain or something? Not that I don't trust you, Efink, but I love my son very much and I would really, _really_ love it if his brain stayed un-melted," and then Aunt Effie saying, very patiently, "Yes, Maggie, I promise that this won't melt your son's brain," and his new classes in scrying had begun (with L.J. only a little worried about this hitherto-unknown possibility of brain melting.)

Aunt Effie has much to teach L.J., but she isn't the only one with lessons for him, and so three times a week, he learns how to be a ruler from his Aunt Lilith, who continues to serve as Queen Regent until he comes of age.

"It's important to always be a just king, even when you are the Lord of Shadows," Aunt Lilith tells him one morning in the throne room. Something brushes against L.J.'s foot and moves up his leg, but it's just one of his new baby cousins, June. (Her body isn't much bigger than the size of his palm, and L.J. can't believe that she and the others will someday grow as big as his Aunt Lilith. Then again, he can't imagine being as tall as his mom, either.)

"I will." L.J. reaches down and June crawls onto his hand, then up his arm before settling on his shoulder.. "You've told me this before—to be just, to be wicked against the free races but forgiving of those I rule, to spread shadows across the land but be mindful of the balance between light and dark, to listen but never be too trusting, and not to keep it a secret if my soul is stored in a magic crown whose destruction would bring about my end and the end of all evil, I _know_ all this already, Aunt Lilith." 

"Well isn't someone growing up fast." He's eleven now—not so big that he can manage his mom's war-hammer, but old enough to feel the too-small expectations of childhood chafing against him. "I don't mean to repeat myself, but these lessons are important. Without a steady hand, the forces of darkness will splinter, crumble, then collapse, and good will travel unchecked across Elna. It is a great burden on your shoulders, L.J., but I know that you are strong enough to bear it. I would never forgive myself, however, if I felt that I'd failed to prepare you to the task."

June travels up L.J.'s neck, past his ear and over his head to the tip of his horn. It tickles, but not enough to distract him from what Aunt Lilith is saying, or from the weight he can feel that has nothing to do with the spiders climbing up his back. "I—" L.J. swallows. When it's just him and Aunt Lilith and his cousins in the throne room, it's easy to forget what she's preparing him _for_ —that she isn't just teaching him abstract concepts, but the tools that he'll need to become Lord of Shadows himself one day. "What if I make a mistake, Aunt Lilith? What if Gorgar and the Bloodkeep fall because of me?" 

Aunt Lilith moves closer and settles herself next to L.J., legs folded beneath her. "Can I tell you a secret?" L.J. nods and she leans a little closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I'm worried, too. Not of you doing something wrong," she says, quick, "no, nothing like that—I'm worried that I'm not the right person to teach you." She spins a cradle over her chest for a cluster of her children; L.J. doesn't remember it, but he's been told that Lilith used to do the same for him when he was a baby. "Sure, I spent many centuries with Zaul'Nazh, both before and after he was crowned Lord of Shadows, but I certainly don't want to teach you to become _him_. And as for myself—well, I've only spent a decade on the throne thus far, and I know I would need quite a few more years—if not millennia—to feel that I'd mastered the art of ruling enough to pass on its lessons. I've lived a very long time, L.J., but all of this seems as if it's happening awfully quickly, and I can't tell if I'm making a terrible mess of teaching you, or how this is all going to turn out, and I'm just—worried."

L.J.'s not used to the adults in his life being nervous, especially not Aunt Lilith, who always seems so strong and so sure about _everything_. If she's uncertain about the future, maybe L.J. should be even more afraid than he is. "So what do you do? When you're feeling worried about all that, I mean."

"I suppose I take it one step at a time. Start by reminding myself that it's alright to feel this way, but that it'd be just as foolish to let these feelings overwhelm me as it would be to ignore them. I tell myself that it's not as if I had any experience being a mother before _that_ happened, but it ended up turning out alright, and so why should this be any different? And I tell myself that I'm not alone in this—that, no matter what may happen, your parents and your uncles and Aunt Effie will always be there for me. When I've finished telling myself all that, L.J., I find it a little easier to let go of some of that worry."

She squeezes his hand and L.J. smiles up at her. He can't exactly relate to the part about becoming a mother, but he knows that she's right about the rest of it, and particularly right about his family. Uncle John has told him stories about some kinds of bird who nudge their fledglings out of the nest to teach them to fly, called it a "sink-or-swim" style of parenting, but then talked about what bullshit it was. That kids need support instead of struggle, and so L.J. knows, whatever challenges may present themselves in the course of being Lord of Shadows, he won't be alone in facing them.

("Unless you actually _do_ want to try sinking or swimming," Uncle John had said after, "in which case, no worries, we'll totally back off. The world is yours to conquer, kid, and we want to help you however you need us, whether it's offering a hand—or wing—or standing by while you go solo.")

In addition to his lessons with Aunt Effie and Aunt Lilith, L.J. packs his bags every few months to learn hands-on with his Uncle Markus at Cael Stuppe. Markus is a leader, too, but as he puts it, "I've got a different managerial style than your Aunt Lilith—a little blunter, little more direct. Think of me as the hammer to her spider-fang scalpel."

Cael Stuppe is a city of men, which confused L.J. when he was younger. "I don't get it, Uncle Markus," he'd said, six at the time and tugging at the sleeve of Markus's coat. "Where are all the orcs? The goblins? It's a city in the sky and I haven't seen, like, a _single_ wyvern."

"Not every city is like the Bloodkeep, little man," Uncle Markus had said, hoisting L.J. up onto his shoulders. "Unlike the rest of the family, your Uncle Markus is a human, born and raised among humans, too. For most humans, goblins and orcs are the enemy, not their neighbors."

"That's dumb."

"True, but humans are pretty dumb."

"Why not come back to the Bloodkeep, then? You could live with me and Mom and Dad instead of a bunch of dumb humans."

Uncle Markus had laughed, even as a passerby had given L.J. and his horns a confused look. "I did think about it, especially right after you were born, but—" he'd sighed a little. "Cael Stuppe is my home and I was born to lead it, just like you and the Bloodkeep. Don't get me wrong, meeting your mom and dad and your aunts and uncles was the best thing that ever happened to me, and I consider them more of my family than my asshole brother ever was, but, end of the day, this is where I belong."

"I guess I get that," L.J. had said. Then, "Wait—you have a brother?"

" _Had_ a brother. A son-of-a-bitch—sorry—named Tavian."

"What happened to him?"

Uncle Markus paused (L.J. couldn't see his face, but it was the expression of a man trying to determine exactly what level of narrative bloodshed was suitable for a six year old.) Then, "A story for another time, little man."

L.J. had gone quiet for a moment, heels swinging gently against Markus's chest. "I wish I had a brother. Or a sister, I guess. Aunt Lilith's kids have so many siblings and I don't even have _one_. I asked Mom and Dad about it once, but they both just started laughing."

Uncle Markus coughed a little (looking back on it, L.J. knows he'd definitely been hiding a laugh of his own.) "Sorry, L.J., but your parents don't have that kind of relationship. Not that they don't love each other, but, it's, uh—a different sort of love than what makes a baby brother or sister." 

"Yeah," L.J. had said mournfully, resting his chin on Uncle Markus's head. "That's what they said, too."

Now that he's older, he spends the mornings with Uncle Markus in the council chamber to observe the logistics of running a city. In the afternoons, though, they set sail in the skies around Cael Stuppe on _The Siren's Revenge_ while Uncle Markus teaches him the finer points of sailing an airship.

"You feel the air currents, L.J.?" Uncle Markus says from the helm, standing by as L.J. maneuvers the wheel; only now that he's thirteen does Uncle Markus trust him to actually steer the _Siren_ himself. "Think of them as your waves. They'll send you out of the sky if you aren't careful."

L.J. nods and swallows, knuckles turned pale lilac where they're gripping the spokes, palms damp against the wood. "Got it, Uncle Markus."

"Alright, ease up now. Let's try some target practice with your Uncle John."

"Excuse me?" Uncle John shouts from where he's soaring along their starboard side, as indignant as a giant eagle is capable of sounding.

"Kidding, John," Markus calls back with a wicked-edged grin.

The next time L.J. sees his Uncle Sokhy and tells him that he's learning to fly an airship, Sokhbarr is insistent that L.J. be trained in wyvern riding, too.

"Sure, an airship is well and good if you've got a whole crew at your disposal and your enemy has misplaced all their arcane cannons, but you need more flexible options, too. What if you need to get somewhere in a hurry? What if you need to survey a battlefield from a distance? Nothing better for it than a wyvern." The fledgling owlbear in Uncle Sokhy's lap nips at his fingers, and he feeds it another piece of red-pink meat.

"Uncle John is basically like a wyvern with feathers," L.J. says, scritching one of the scream beasts, J'ul'ia, under her—chin? Shoulder? With scream beasts, it's always a little hard to tell, but she seems to be enjoying it. "Can't I just ask him?"

"Wyverns are magnificent beasts, L.J.! There's a reason they were the preferred steeds of the Vinguri, and those guys were traveling great distances in a hurry, like, _all_ the time."

L.J. runs a hand over J'ul'ia's beak and she lets out a delighted chirp that, somehow, L.J. can actually _taste_ as peanut butter and strawberries. "The Vinguri—that's what my dad was, right?"

"Yeah. They were the trusted agents of the old Lord of Shadows—sort of like Leiland is for you, now, but more of them and their outfits were way less cool."

One of J'ul'ia's eyestalks blinks at L.J. curiously. "What was he like then?"

Sokhbarr pauses for a moment, then makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "You know, we really didn't see much of each other in those days." L.J. and J'ul'ia both look at him patiently and after a beat Sokhbarr relents. "I don't know, L.J., he was—different. His relationship with Zaul'Nazh wasn't healthy for him, but he couldn't see that until Zaul'Nazh was gone. He was less sure of himself, mostly, and looking for validation in the wrong places." L.J. frowns a little, and Sokhbarr says, fast, "It's not like that now, though. I think having you in his life is the best thing that could've happened to him. He loves you, he's got a new sense of purpose, and he has better partners now than he ever did in the other Vinguri. Hell, he's taken to raising you so well, sometimes I forget that you're Zaul'Nazh's son and not his—"

"Wait, what?" L.J. interrupts with a confused half-laugh. Sokhbarr goes quiet. Next to him, J'ul'ia hiccups and a burst of purple tentacles spills out of her mouth before retracting back under her tongue. "What did you just say?"

Uncle Sokhy clears his throat, abrupt and unsubtle. "Right, so—where were we again? Wyverns?"

"No, no, stop. What did you just say, Uncle Sokhbarr?" L.J.'s tone grows urgent. "Did you say that I'm Zaul'Nazh's son?" It's a joke, right? Just Uncle Sokhy telling one of his weird jokes? It has to be, except Sokhbarr's not laughing along. Instead, he goes pale, looking very much like he'd pull himself back into his shell if he could.

"Look, L.J., this really isn't my place—"

"It fucking is _now_." He can't tell whether he feels dizzy or furious, but either way the world is spinning, his breathing turned shallow and uneven. He closes his eyes to steady himself, but instead his vision is filled with a looming, flame-wreathed silhouette, a jagged mouth smiling down at him from the black. 

"Maybe we should talk to Maggie first," Sokhbarr starts to say, but L.J. shakes his head, eyes still closed.

"No, no _way_. First, you're going to tell me what the fuck is going on here." L.J. can hear a tremor in his voice and hates how afraid he sounds. But he's been around enough power in his life to know what it looks like—Aunt Lilith and Uncle Markus passing unquestioned, unbending judgment in their throne rooms and council chambers; Aunt Effie filled with the weight of divination as she delivers a prophetic reading; his dad's eyes glowing dead-white as he calls forth a necrotic invocation; his mom lighting the air around her afire as she channels an infernal rage. L.J. knows what power looks like, and now he channels it himself, pulling himself up to his full height and saying, in his best Lord of Shadows voice, "You are going to tell me the truth, Sokhbarr, and you're going to tell me _now_."

And Sokhbarr does.

L.J. doesn't tell his mom that he knows when he returns to the Bloodkeep that night, tucking it away like a loose stone wedged into his boot, some small, nagging presence that makes itself known whenever he takes a step. _I forget that your Zaul'Nazh's son and not his_. L.J. had always known that he and Leiland weren't biologically related, but his mom had never volunteered other details, and L.J. had never cared enough to ask. He _knew_ who his dad was, so what difference did it make if there was one missing piece in his family tree?

 _I forget that your Zaul'Nazh's son_. He hadn't cared when he didn't know, but now that he does, he can't just forget it, can he? He's the son of Zaul'Nazh, and so what does that make him? What is he going to become? Part-tiefling, part-fiery shadow demon? What else is he going to inherit? What secrets are waiting in his blood, passed along by Zaul'Nazh, buried and waiting?

He can't talk to his mom about this—not yet, at least—and so early the following day, before his dad is due to leave on his next mission, L.J. heads to his study, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he knocks on the door.

"L.J.?" His dad says when he walks in, looking up from the maps on his desk. He's not yet in his armor, but his hair is pulled back from his face, his usual attire traded for rougher traveling clothes. "Have you come to say goodbye already? I'm not leaving for another few hours."

"No, I—" he feels nervous, which is _stupid_. He hasn't felt nervous about talking to his dad since the time he was playing orcs and elves and broke a blue-and-white painted vase that his dad was particularly fond of. 

("Oh dear," his dad had said when L.J. told him. "That was, ah, rather precious." Then, seeing the panicky look on L.J.'s face, "It's no matter, really! Nothing a few mending cantrips couldn't fix, absolutely no need to worry about it." Which definitely wasn't true, and the vase has always sat a little crooked since, but the only thing his dad said to him that had even slightly verged on reproach was "to maybe be a bit more careful in the future," and then he never mentioned it again. And L.J. hasn't even really done anything _wrong_ this time, so what is there to be nervous about? He just knows something he's not supposed to, and that wasn't even his _fault_.)

"Are you alright, L.J.?" His dad frowns at him a little. "You look—a little less lilac than usual. Should I call for a cleric?"

"Am I like him?" L.J. says, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Zaul'Nazh, I mean." He swallows. "I know that he's my—I mean, I know that he and I are—" he breaks off, trying to steady the nervousness in his voice. "I know that I'm related to him, but I don't—I don't _want_ to be. He sounded like a monster, not like a wyvern or a scream beast, but an actual monster, and I don't want to—to _become_ him, but he's part of me, isn't he? He's part of me, and so I need to know—am I like him?"

Before he's finished talking, his dad is already rising from the desk and crossing the room to reach L.J.'s side. He looks worried, brow creased and mouth set in a slant, but the expression in his eyes is all concern as he pulls L.J. into a hug; it isn't until his dad's arms are holding him steady that L.J. realizes he'd been shaking.

"It's alright," his dad says, soft. "Please don't be afraid, L.J., everything is alright."

"But it's true, isn't it?" L.J. asks, looking up at his dad. After a moment, his dad gives a slight nod. "I'm related to Zaul'Nazh. There's no changing that, and so that means there's some part of me that belongs to _him_ , too."

"The only person you belong to is yourself," his dad says, firm and reassuring. "Yes, you are the descendent of Zaul'Nazh, but that doesn't have to mean anything. He doesn't have some sway over your fate or a say on who you'll become just because of some happenstance of biology. You are your own man, L.J., you've never been anything but. That doesn't change simply because you've learned who your real father is."

" _You're_ my real father," L.J. says, fierce and immediate. He lets out a shaky exhale. "But he—"

"Zaul'Nazh was a bastard." L.J.'s never heard such venom in his dad's voice before. "He was, and I won't argue that, but he was a bastard because he _chose_ to be—not because of some fault of his birth or some inherited trait in his bones. He was cruel because he enjoyed it, he was wicked because it brought him satisfaction. On the other hand, _you_ —" his dad gently tilts L.J.'s chin up, "—you are the same boy who brought Uncle Sokhbarr every injured warg puppy and infant ankheg he found because he couldn't bear to see them in pain, who cried for three days straight when he learned that fledgling roc would likely never fly again because of its broken wing, who invited every orc, goblin, troll, and ogre in the garrison to your sixth birthday because you didn't want anyone to feel left out." L.J. flushes a little at the memory, but his dad just smiles at him. "I have never seen Zaul'Nazh in you, because you have spent every day of your life choosing to be kind and understanding and compassionate where he was nothing but petulant and power-hungry." His other hand is rubbing small, soothing circles on L.J.'s back, and L.J. starts to feel himself breathing a little easier. "Do you understand? You have nothing to be worried about."

His dad pulls him close and holds onto him for another few moments, a steady, stabilizing presence, then lets go. He stays nearby though until L.J. nods and says, "Yeah, I understand." Not that his doubts are gone entirely, but it's hard to feel quite so worried when his dad is here with him, his presence and belief like a warm, comforting weight that L.J. can rest around his shoulders.

"If you don't mind my asking," his dad says, "how did you find out? I know your mother always intended on telling you, but I don't believe she'd planned on doing so yet."

"No, it was, uh, Uncle Sokhy," L.J. says, a little sheepish. "But he didn't mean to! It just sort of slipped out." At the questioning look on his dad's face, he continues, "We were talking about you, actually. I wanted to know what you were like before I was born, and he said—well, he said that you're much happier now, and he thought part of it had to do with me. He said he forgot sometimes that I'm Zaul'Nazh's son and not yours."

His dad tries to hide it, but L.J. sees him turn faintly pink.

"Anyway, it was just an accident. I don't think he even realized what he said, at first, and even then I thought he was kidding until I saw his reaction. Once I knew he was serious, though, I sort of pushed him into telling me the rest." L.J. pauses, then frowns a little. "Did mom really have me while she was falling out of an airship?"

His dad laughs. "To be fair, I believe it was actually just after she'd made it to the ground." He gives L.J. a thoughtful look. "Have you spoken to her about this yet?"

"No, I wanted to talk to you, first."

"I think it would be a good idea if you did, for both of you. Maybe not now, if you aren't feeling up for it, but soon at least."

"Yeah, okay." He doesn't like the idea of keeping a secret from her, anyway. "Do you know where she is?"

L.J. finds his mom down on the training courts, war-hammer in one hand and a collection of battered and bruised soldiers fallen on the field around her. 

"That was a great effort, you guys! You nearly had me there, especially with that flanking maneuver? Nicely done. Should we go again—? Oh, L.J.!" she says when she sees him walking up, smiling wide. "What a lovely surprise. Did you want to jump in? I could call over a few more from the garrison to even the odds."

"Not this time," he says as an ogre limps off the field. "I was wondering if you had a minute to chat?"

His mom nods and they leave the training court for the shade of a nearby weapons shed, a little small and a little dusty, but private at least. She hasn't stopped looking semi-concerned since L.J. said he wanted to talk, and that expression soon shifts to something between surprise and discomfort when he cuts straight to the heart of it, the rough-edged _I know_ part of the conversation.

"I'm so sorry," his mom says when he's done, her head hanging low. "Gods, I'm so, _so_ sorry. I promise, I had always planned on telling you, but it just—never seemed like the right time." She lets out a sharp exhale. "That's no excuse, though. I should have told you. You had a right to know, no matter how I might've justified it to myself." Her hands twist a little, like they're looking for the grip of her war-hammer; he doesn't like seeing her so nervous. "I can't—gods, I can't even _begin_ to imagine how angry you must be with me right now."

"What? No, Mom, stop, it's okay." He puts an arm around her shoulder, though it doesn't quite reach all the way. "I promise, I'm not mad. I mean, sure, I was pissed when I found out, but because of what it meant, not because you'd hid it from me." It's pretty dusty in the shed, which must be why he can see her tearing up a little. "You know I never gave a shit about who my biological dad was—why would I blame you for not telling me something I never cared about knowing? How would that be fair?"

"Sweetheart, I—"

"Really, Mom, I'm good. _We're_ good." Like he'd ever get angry with her over something as stupid as this. "I wanted you to know that, well, that _I_ knew, but that's it. You don't have to apologize for anything, it's okay."

Her face relaxes a little, but L.J. can still see tension in the stiff set of her shoulders. "Are you sure?"

"Very sure. As sure as I am that Uncle John, like, _absolutely_ cheats at poker."

She laughs a little. "You're right, he definitely does." Then, after a beat, "Okay, because I'm your mom and I can't help but ask—how are you feeling about all this?"

"Better, now. I talked to Dad, and that helped a lot, but it's still—" L.J. frowns. "I don't know. It still feels like a joke, I guess? Like, I've been hearing people talk about Zaul'Nazh my whole life, enough so that he seems more like a story than a person. A bad story, though, where everyone dies at the end." Has he ever heard anything good about Zaul'Nazh? He is the one who brought L.J.'s family together, so L.J. can at least give him credit for that. (Then again, the bonds they formed were all their own, so half-credit instead.) "I don't love that I'm related to him, but like Dad said, it doesn't have to mean anything, it doesn't have to say anything bad about _me_."

"Gods, no," his mom says quickly. "No, of course not."

"And I guess it does explain why I'm supposed to be the next Lord of Shadows instead of Aunt Lilith or someone else, which I had always wondered about." He pauses. "Can I ask you something, though?"

"Anything, love. I think we both know that I owe you some answers."

"Just out of curiosity, why didn't you ever tell me about him? Did you not want me to know, or did you think I wasn't ready, or—?"

Her hands turn fidgety again. "At first, yes, I thought it would be easier if you didn't know. You were born just after he died, and so much of those early years was spent picking up the pieces of the empire, trying to figure out what was worth preserving and what we needed to scrap. Lots of late nights in the council chamber, all of us taking turns watching you, and in between, most of us were realizing—no one more than me and your dad—that Zaul'Nazh hadn't been the man we thought he was, that there was an ugliness to him we wanted to scrub clean from the Bloodkeep." She shakes her head, like she's trying to loosen the weight of the memory from her shoulders. "How could I tell you then? It didn't seem fair or right to weigh you down with such a—a complicated and messy legacy, especially when we were still making sense of it ourselves. So I decided to wait until he'd started to fade from memory, when it didn't feel like we were seeing daily reminders of the damage he'd left behind.

"But then you got older, and even though there were plenty of times when I could've told you, it seemed to matter less and less. All of us were trying to keep Zaul'Nazh and his bullshit in the past where he belonged, and—like you said—you weren't bothered by questions of paternity or lineage or anything. Gods, it sounds so flimsy, doesn't it? But I certainly found it easy enough to justify it to myself. _Wait until he's a little older_ , I'd think, or, _Just_ _as soon as he asks about it_ , but who knows how long I would have kept putting it off. I don't know. I knew it wasn't fair to keep it from you, but—it didn't feel like I'd be doing you any favors by telling you, either." She looks at him steady now, and he can see the regret in her eyes as clearly as he can hear it in her voice. "That's no excuse though—there are no excuses—and even though you're saying that it's okay, I do need you to know how sorry I am."

L.J. nods; he gets it—she's his mom, and so she'll never stop trying to protect him, whether from the tip of a sword or from learning something that might cause him pain. Still— "While we're here, any other big secrets I should know about? Is Cassandra the Beige really my grandmother, or something?"

"No, no," she says, laughing. "Just the one about Zaul'Nazh."

There is still something that's bothering him, though, one last nagging point of doubt. "Do you—regret it? Being with him, I mean." _Having me_ , he thinks.

His mom shakes her head, immediate. " _Gods_ , no. Never. I mean, had I fallen out of love with him by the time you were born? Sure, but—" she gives him a look that's so fond he can _feel_ it, reading him bedtime stories and kissing his bruised knees and first teaching him to swing a war-hammer all wrapped up in one. "If nothing else, being with Zaul'Nazh gave me _you_. How could I ever regret that?"

Shit, the dust must be getting to him, too; L.J. rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms and clears his throat. "Yeah, okay, cool. Just wondering." He can see his mom smiling from the corner of his eye, but she doesn't say anything else. "Anyway, you still up for some combat practice? One of these days I want to come with you when you're raiding Tor Kellin."

She laughs and nods. "Sweetheart, it would be my honor." Then, as they're leaving, "Okay, and I know you're going to hate me saying this, but I really am just so _proud_ of the tiefling you're becoming—"

L.J. groans. " _Mom—_ "

At the end of the day, who really gives a shit that he's related to Zaul'Nazh? Fuck him. L.J. is his own man, raised by a mother, a father, two aunts, and three uncles who love him, and when he grows up to be the best Lord of Shadows _ever_ , Zaul'Nazh is cordially invited to suck it.

**Author's Note:**

> after trying like four different spellings of Markus's hometown, I dm'ed Ify on twitter about it and he confirmed "cael stuppe" (which is not at all what I expected so thanks brennan)


End file.
